The Great King
by slideyfoot
Summary: Queen Aravis and King Cor of Archenland have long awaited an heir. Finally, 20 years after the two first met, the Queen is reaching the end of her first pregnancy. However, things do not go quite as planned…


_**The Great King**_

**Disclaimer: **The lands of Narnia, Archenland, Telmarine and Calormen, along with their inhabitants, are the invention and intellectual property of the late C. S. Lewis. What follows is purely a work of fanfiction, drawing mainly on Lewis' _The Horse and His Boy_.

* * *

Clutching the sheets, Queen Aravis bellowed in pain.

"Come on, dearie, just one last push," urged a soothing voice by her side.

Hands now tightening in time with each shuddering contraction, Aravis gave one last grunt. Her efforts were rewarded by a high-pitched squeal; the future King of Archenland had taken his first breath.

"By the Lion's mane!"

"Is something wrong, midwife?" Aravis demanded, "Is my son deformed?"

The midwife hesitated, then cautiously replied, "No, my Queen, not…strictly speaking."

"Show me the child."

Aravis took her son, still bawling, from the maternal woman standing next to the bed. Cradling her firstborn in her arms, the Queen made a thorough examination. Everything appeared to be in order, and – ouch – yes, a strong grip too. Two eyes, five fingers on each hand, the normal number of limbs, usual count of toes…and…and…

Then she saw the problem. The future King of Archenland was a girl.

* * *

"What do you mean, it's a girl? _How_ can it be a girl? The centaurs all told us the stars predicted a great warrior, leader of men, conqueror of…"

"Do be quiet, Cor, you're getting excited."

The King of Archenland slumped in his chair. When he had asked to present his child to the Anvard court, almost bursting with pride, Aravis had insisted he meet her in their private quarters. It was a strange request, but the King often bowed to his Queen's judgement; after all, if it had not been for her, Calormen may well have broken its long peace two winters past.

"What are we to do, Tarky?" he pleaded.

"Don't call me that – you know I hate pet names." Aravis strode slowly to the great wardrobe that stood in the corner. Looking pensive, she suggested quietly, "Only you, I and the midwife know it's a girl. No-one else need find out."

"By the pale behind of Jadis! How are we supposed to manage that? We can't very well hide her once she gets to a certain age; there are…woman things…she'll start to…" Cor blushed furiously.

"I can handle it, Cor. Besides, back in Tashbaan, I often slipped into a pair of trousers; none of the men gave me a second glance. In fact, I got a few winks from some of the Tarkheena – its really far more simple than you'd think."

Cor could only glower at her sceptically.

"Look, its not as if we have much choice, my husband. I'm well past childbearing age – it's a miracle I managed this one, and you're not exactly a satyr in the bedroom department." She ignored Cor's embarrassed splutter. "Ram will have to be a man, at least for now. Your accursed reactionary grandfather's fear of Jadis means there is no other way. As if all women were witches!"

"But Tar..Aravis, the people will never accept rule by a Queen. The memory of Jadis is still too strong; Narnia had Lucy and Susan to help them forget, but Archenland has always been led by kings, not queens."

Aravis leaned against the furniture. Then, having pounded the wardrobe with her fist in aggravation, she continued, "Damn tradition, Cor! If we can't produce an heir, Rabadash will get his hands on Archenland without a sword drawn. His son is a distant cousin of mine, and you know he'd leap at the chance for some glory – the old fool hasn't been able to leave Tashbaan in 18 years, but he'd conquer Archenland by inheritance law!"

The King sighed; he knew his wife was right, as she had been right two years earlier when he wanted to cease trading silk at the extortionate price set by the Tisroc. He geared himself up for one last act of regal defiance.

"Well, I'm at least going to get to choose her name." Cor got out of his seat, walked over to the child's cot, and held her aloft. Gathering himself for suitably grandiose inflection, he proclaimed, "Bree, future Ruler of Archenland!"

There was a pause. Then a laugh.

"We can't name her after a horse, dear. Let's see…" Aravis pondered for a moment, "Ram, after your great-great-great-great-great grandfather – back when Archenland was full of sheep."

The decision was made, though Cor long complained that naming his daughter after an ancestor some called a glorified shepherd was no better than his old equine companion. There were a few loose ends the royal pair had to tie up, starting with the midwife. Fortunately, she proved a rather honourable example of her profession, and willingly swore to secrecy, acting as Ram's nurse and then handmaiden to the end of her days. The three of them spent Ram's childhood taking great care to supervise any activity which might let slip the secret; so it was that any time the heir to the throne needed to relieve herself, or bathe in the royal baths (which were particularly fine thanks to the Calormene workmen Aravis had commissioned some years before), she was the only monarch of Archenland to do so in complete privacy. As she grew older, her mother instructed Ram how best to bind her breasts, how to walk, how to ride, and perhaps most importantly, how to fight.

Thus the daughter of Queen Aravis and King Cor of Archenland spent her early years as a male, for the good of her domain.

* * *

"Watch your left, Ram!" shouted the master-at-arms, though it was a somewhat futile effort on his part; Ram had already blocked the attack (in an entirely unorthodox manner, thought the master-at-arms reprovingly). Ram smiled in response, though her eyes never left her adversary. A large, burly Anvard knight circled in front of her, feeling out Ram's defences. Before he had a chance to react, Ram grasped him firmly by his tunic and right arm, stepped past him, then flung her victim to the ground. She immediately followed him down, whipping her legs either side of the prostrate arm, then pulled painfully on the man's wrist.

"I yield, I yield!" gasped her opponent. Many of those at court would have been outraged; Ram was less than half the man's age. However, this particular knight was of the better sort of nobleman, so after returning to his feet, responded by clapping Ram on the shoulder and exclaiming,

"Ram lad, you've overmatched me once again! Come, let me congratulate you properly with some of old King Lune's excellent mead."

Ram grinned, but accepted the offer with some grace, promising to join the knight later that evening. With another laugh, the loser mounted his palfrey and rode off into the city extending from the castle walls, calling over his shoulder to "not forget the mead!".

"Well, Master Cumber, what do you make of that? You have to admit, following up the fall with a second grip is far surer than old Duke Gorbache's method!"

The master-at-arms grumbled his acknowledgement, but not before insisting, "I still think you could seize them in the old way, boy. Worked fine for Gorbache, would work fine for you. They didn't call him 'the Dragon' for nothing!"

Ram gave a dismissive snort, then ran across the courtyard and up the main stairs of the castle. King Cor had been abed for several days now, and his daughter, as much as she might pretend, was getting worried. Cor was getting on in years, and still weak from a forceful pass at a tournament (the Queen had tried to dissuade her husband from taking part, but Cor was adamant no Narnian upstart was going to take his record and to blazes with his age).

Reaching the royal chambers, Ram flung the door open and plopped down on the end of the bed.

"How is the mighty king?" she asked, her cheery tone failing to cover her concern.

Cor coughed twice, raising himself up on one elbow. His face looked drawn, with heavy bags under his eyes, and his skin was a sickly grey colour. Nervously playing with his teeth from force of habit, he replied, "I'm not dead yet, son" – the court leech was not far away, meaning the king had to be careful of Ram's gender – "so don't get in a fluster. Your mother has sent for Willowbark, she'll put all to rights."

Willowbark the Wise was known for her skills as a surgeon, but Ram was no fool and neither was her father. It was obvious to both of them that even the most famous physician in Narnia, who learned from Queen Lucy herself, could not help King Cor now. She beckoned the court leech, who was hovering nearby, out of the room. With a bow, he backed into the hallway. Waiting until the heavy oak door swung shut, Ram drew close to the king and whispered,

"Father…I…I have to ask. What is to become of me when I take the throne?"

Cor grimaced, feeling far older than his fifty years, replied "My daughter, you knew this day would come. If I…should pass away, then you must be king," he waved off her protestation. "You _must _be king, Ram. Aslan saw fit to bless us with you 16 years ago, but you were always destined to be an only child."

"But father, I can't keep on _pretending_ like this!" Ram exclaimed, "I'm sure to make a mistake some time, and then the kingdom is lost."

The King turned to look directly at her. Grabbing her attention with all the authority a man who has spoken face to face with a god could muster, he said, "Ram, you cannot fool the court into thinking you are a man forever. But you _will _rule Archenland; the people may take some convincing, and that shall be the first of many trials ahead. You –"

At this point, Cor was overcome by another coughing fit, forestalling any further conversation as the leech rushed in to administer herbs. In a sombre mood, Ram took her leave.

* * *

The King grew steadily worse, and though Willowbark came and went, her skills could only comfort a dying man. A routine began, where Queen Aravis would sit patiently outside the bedchamber waiting for news, only for Willowbark to emerge, sleeves rolled up, sadly shaking her head. Ram tried to lose herself in her morning wrestling bouts, but could not concentrate. The same Anvard knight she had bested before knocked her to the ground with ease (though he always helped her up afterward, perceptive enough to see that it was Ram who lost, rather than he who won).

Ram took to spending long hours in the Royal Archive, searching through endless scrolls detailing inheritance law, but to no avail. Her great-grandfather had made it absolutely clear that there were only Kings of Archenland, and to overturn that law Ram would have to gain the support of all five council members; the Dukes of Archenland were not known for their progressive thinking. After five days trawling through musky vellum, Ram pushed aside the contents of her reading desk. Dragging her hands across her thickly-rimmed eyes, she let out a deep sigh. There was no other way.

King Cor died in his sleep, as the weather mourned his passing with great snowdrifts piling up against the castle walls. 1050 proved to be the coldest winter in Archenland for fifty years, a fitting setting for the weeping procession that passed through Anvard's enormous oaken gates. The King's litter was carried by Prince Ram and three members of the Royal Council, winding up towards the small hill half a mile to the south. Archenlanders gathered at its base, while the royal family and representatives from Narnia, Calormen and Telmarine formed a circle around King Cor's funeral pyre. Ram, as was her ancient right, lit the wood under her father's body; damp snows had meant the ceremony was delayed for several days.

After mourning their King for two months, the subjects of Archenland returned en masse to Castle Anvard. It was time to crown the new king.

"Ram, now that you are to be king, you must be wary of the Council," advised Queen Aravis in a grave voice. "I know that Duke Egracour of Sterc has long supported our family, but I cannot vouch for the Earl of Shauvven."

Her daughter nodded, sitting on a nearby chair in the royal quarters. "I am even less sure of the other three, mother. Duke Dal is rumoured to have made arrangements with the ogres on his northern border. I only rely on Sterc, and I cannot be certain how Egracour might react if he ever discovered the king was a woman."

Aravis grimaced in agreement. "I do not envy the task ahead of you, Ram, but I will do my best to help you. I still have friends in Calormen, should it ever come to that." Rising from her position on the bed, Aravis walked over to Ram and took her hand. "But just now, we have a coronation to deal with."

Leaving together, the two women's faces grew rigid, set into dignified masks free of emotion. As they entered the grand Throne Room of Castle Anvard, the assembled court stood and bowed. Visiting dignitaries from Narnia, as was custom, greeted the new king; a Tarkaan from the neighbouring province of Rusgyar was also present. Aravis shook the hand of her old friend warmly, leaving Ram to walk on ahead as Aravis and her bearded companion chatted amiably about current events in Calormen. Climbing the short set of stairs to the throne, Ram turned slowly, then with a sense of ceremony, lowered herself into the plush cushion. A hush fell over the gathered courtiers and ambassadors as an old retainer ascended the steps, carrying the royal crown of Archenland.

"Long live the King! Long live King Ram of Archenland!"


End file.
